


But Seas Between Us Broad Have Roared

by solitaryjo



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Grief, M/M, Memories, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaryjo/pseuds/solitaryjo
Summary: December 31st, 1802.





	

Horatio sighed as he looked out the window of the small stone cottage, watching a group of young men fighting their way through the storm as they walked along the road towards the village.  Reduced once again to the rank of lieutenant and forced to live on half-pay since the Treaty of Amiens put an end to the hostilities, he had reluctantly returned to Kent to await any news of a possible new commission in the much-diminished ranks of His Majesty’s Navy. He hated imposing on his father and felt as if he had failed him, but there was no other choice.

Was it wrong to wish for war? For a chance to regain his promotion? If he could fill his days with the duties and concerns of command it might temporarily distract him from the constant aching emptiness in his heart. Or would a return to the sea just make it worse? Even the thought of renewed conflict with France brought back memories of Archie, his face alight with anticipation as he delivered the news of the king’s execution and announced their transfer to the _Indefatigable_ all those years ago.

Dr. Hornblower watched his son with a heavy heart. His thoughts turned to the coming year and he could see no light on the horizon.  He’d been so happy when Horatio had written to him about the friend he’d made in the Navy – his son did not find it easy to connect with other people but it seemed as if this young man had found a way to break through that reserve. He’d accepted without question, and to be honest without much surprise, the nature of their relationship when they’d visited him on shore leave. He’d seen Horatio retreat into a dark place where he couldn’t be reached when Archie had been lost and rejoiced in the news of their reunion but now...

He knew the next few weeks would be the most difficult. It had been January when Horatio had first met Archie and almost exactly nine years later when he had said his final farewell. Dear God! It was all so unfair. It seemed fate would only allow the Hornblower men a few years with the ones they loved before tearing them apart and leaving behind a gaping wound that would never heal.

All he could do was try to take Horatio’s mind off his troubles, as futile as that effort may be.

He walked over to the window and put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Are you certain you would not like to join our neighbours for the celebrations in the village?”

“No, thank you.” Horatio didn’t turn around. “You should go though. I do not wish to keep you from your friends.”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Hornblower did not want Horatio to feel like a burden so he thought to appeal to his practical nature. “I can see them any time I wish. Besides, I would much rather stay up for the bells in the comfort of my own home than venture out in that weather.”

As midnight approached, the two men sat in silence in from of the open fire, each lost in his own thoughts. Dr. Hornblower’s eyes were fixed on the portrait that hung above the hearth.

_Oh my love, I wish you were here. Our boy is lost and I do not know how to help him. You were the one he ran to when he was hurt. You were the one who could comfort him and take away his pain, the one who wiped away the tears that he dared not shed in front of anyone else, even at so young an age. He is hurting now, my love. Hurting as I did when I lost you and I can do nothing but watch him suffer. I do not have a cure for a broken heart._

Horatio followed his father’s gaze and tears welled up in his eyes as he studied the likeness of his mother and saw the love and tenderness behind her beautiful smile, somehow captured in perpetuity by the artist’s hand. He’d been so young when she’d passed but he remembered her warm embrace, the comforting scent of her perfume when she held him close to her breast, the soft hands stroking his hair and the calming voice telling him everything was going to be alright. How he longed for that now. How he wished he could turn back time and imagine once again that a grazed knee would be the worst thing he would ever experience. He turned his head away so his father would not see the torment in his eyes. Heaven knew the man had enough painful memories of his own without anyone else adding to them, particularly at this time of year.

The chiming of the clock brought them both back to the present and Dr. Hornblower raised his glass in a silent toast. There was no need to say anything and neither of them could bring themselves to utter the words that should have marked the turning of the year.

“Well, that’s that.”

He got to his feet and made his way to the door, laying his hand on Horatio’s head as he passed.

“Goodnight, son. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Goodnight, father,” Horatio replied, trying to hide the tremor in his voice, “don’t worry about me, I’ll be up shortly.”

The fire was getting low and there was no point wasting fuel when he could go to bed and keep warm under the blankets so he picked up the bottle of whisky and rose wearily from his chair. Drinking was not the answer but at least it might put him into a deep enough sleep to afford him some respite from the nightmares that had plagued him since Kingston.

As he began to climb the stairs, he was startled by a rapping at the front door. He frowned – what on earth? – but then remembered what his father had told him about the Scottish family that had moved to the village a few years since and brought the tradition of first-footing with them. No doubt it was some of the local young men looking for a warm welcome and a bit of shelter from the biting cold.

Although he had no intention of entertaining guests, it would be rude to leave them out there and he didn’t want his father to get a reputation for ignoring traditions that others held dear, even if they were just silly superstitions, so he decided he would let them in as custom dictated and make an excuse to usher then out soon after.

He opened the door and was surprised to see a solitary figure outlined against the snow-filled sky, back turned to him and face obscured by the hood of a winter cloak.

The man began to speak, his words barely reaching Horatio’s ears through the howling of the wind.

“I’m afraid I am neither tall nor dark-haired.”

Horatio felt a shiver run the length of his spine that had nothing to do with the arctic chill in the air.

That voice. The shape of those broad shoulders under the snow-flecked wool.

No. It couldn’t be. The combination of whisky and memory was playing tricks on him, making him see and hear what he so desperately desired. Or perhaps he’d fallen asleep in front of the fire and his unconscious mind was now torturing him with dreams of things that could never be.

The moon broke through the clouds, creating the appearance of a halo around a head of short-cropped golden hair as the apparition pushed back its hood and turned to face him.

“Nor, I hope, a stranger.”

“My God!”

Horatio’s legs buckled under him and he clutched at the table in the hall for support.

“Archie?”

“The one and only.”

Archie’s smile was as astonishing as it had been the first time Horatio saw it but there was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

He glanced down at the threshold and held out his hands, palms open in a gesture of helplessness.

“I have no gift to offer, Horatio, and I would not wish to bring to you any more bad luck than I already have.”

Horatio shook his head in disbelief. Bad luck? The only gift he wanted was standing right in front of him. And he was worried about bad luck? But it did sound like something Archie would say and it seemed like he could not bring himself to enter the house empty-handed.  Realising he had not put down the bottle of whisky, Horatio passed it out the door, still half convinced he was dreaming.

“Will this do?”

“Perfect!” Archie grabbed it, grinned broadly and stepped into the hall.

Horatio slowly lifted his hand to Archie’s cheek as if he feared that touching him would shatter the illusion, but all his doubts disappeared like the snowflakes melting on the lashes framing those impossible blue eyes when he felt a warm hand cover his own. Archie was the only person he’d ever known who could radiate such heat when the temperature was below freezing.

“My God, it’s really you!” He gasped, “Archie, how...?”

Archie carefully placed the bottle on the table and pulled him forward into a tight embrace.

“The past can wait, my love.”

His voice was muffled against Horatio’s shoulder but when he looked up his eyes were clear and bright with joy and hope and the light that seemed to have gone out forever burned once again in Horatio’s heart.

“For now, let us concern ourselves with the present.”

Horatio laughed and the words he’d thought he would never say again were echoed back to him from the lips that met his own.

“Happy New Year!”

**Author's Note:**

> According to Scottish tradition, the first foot - the first person to cross the threshold of a house after midnight on New Year's Day - brings all the luck, good or bad, which the household will encounter during the twelve months ahead. The first footer should be a tall dark-haired man, preferably a stranger. The most important rule for the first-footer is that he should not arrive empty-handed. He must carry symbolic gifts such as a lump of coal to signify warmth and comfort, cake or shortbread to denote plenty and a bottle, preferably of whisky, from which to pour a dram to toast the health of all who live in the house.
> 
>  
> 
> We two have paddled in the stream,  
> from morning sun till dine;  
> But seas between us broad have roared  
> since auld lang syne.
> 
> And there’s a hand my trusty friend!  
> And give me a hand o’ thine!  
> And we’ll take a right good-will draught,  
> for auld lang syne.


End file.
